


Too Old to Die Young

by yuffiehighwind



Series: Don't Tame Your Demons, Just Keep 'Em On a Leash [1]
Category: Agents of Cracked
Genre: Explicit Language, F/M, Headcanon, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Alternating, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-04
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:00:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25703977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuffiehighwind/pseuds/yuffiehighwind
Summary: What do an immortal Vietnam veteran and a gun-toting IT specialist have in common? One manipulative god, his idiot demigod son, a boring corporate office, and their shared love of explosives.
Relationships: Mandy Manderson/Sarge
Series: Don't Tame Your Demons, Just Keep 'Em On a Leash [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1837210





	Too Old to Die Young

**Author's Note:**

> [08/04/20] This is going to be a multi-chapter fic about Sarge and Mandy becoming attracted to each other and eventually hooking up. I was going to post it when it was completed, but I got impatient and decided to upload it gradually anyway, even though I have a bad habit of posting WIPs and then not completing them. 
> 
> Title comes from [the song of the same name](https://youtu.be/GCEo5vbabt8) by Brother Dege.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the summer of '76, a mysterious figure makes Sarge a strange proposal and grants a fateful wish.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Sarge is 34 years old here and was born in 1942. He still has both his eyes.  
> -The Stranger (who is actually the Chief) looks like Cody Johnston. Bolded dialogue is the Chief's distorted voice, and normal text just sounds like Cody.  
> -The [United States Bicentennial](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/United_States_Bicentennial) was a huge event across the country the summer of 1976, and I can't say how Vietnam veterans actually felt about it, but it was one year after the war ended and I thought it made an interesting time for the Chief to recruit Sarge.  
> -I straight up copied [this scene from Lost](https://youtu.be/NgGTJYqthbo) and all my Sarge headcanons spiraled out of it.  
> 

**San Francisco**

**July 4, 1976**

_I’m dying, Sarge._

You’re not. You’re gonna make it.

_It’s okay. Really, it’s okay._

No it isn’t. None of this is okay.

_It was worth it. We got you out of there._

You didn’t need to. I never asked you to.

_You’re gonna survive this._

I didn’t want to.

* * *

“You going to the fireworks tonight?” 

The old pub was quiet and dimly lit, muffled sounds of patriotic music filtering in off the street. A baby-faced waitress - probably too young to work in a dive like this - leaned on the wooden bar and asked her coworker his plans. The bartender brushed her off, so another, older waitress joined her to chatter about the city’s best vantage points for the show. San Francisco’s streets were thrumming with life from its countless Bicentennial celebrations - from massive city-wide events to the smallest of gatherings - and Sarge was realizing what a _stupid_ idea it had been to rent an apartment here, of all places, in order to forget the last thirteen years of his life. 

With nowhere else to avoid the parties - including his own apartment, where his neighbors were throwing a noisy BBQ - the young soldier huddled in a hidden booth at the back of the pub. (Though that description wasn’t quite accurate. Sarge couldn’t call himself _young_ anymore, and it felt like he had aged centuries during the war.) Just about any man like him could be a veteran, but he tried not to be obvious. Sarge had served his time, and had seen and done enough for several lives. Still technically an officer, Sarge fled to San Francisco for this reason, ignoring every call about future career options he received from the East Coast.

After giving everything and more, Sarge put down his weapons. He hadn’t become a _pacifist_ or anything, but felt he deserved a much-needed break. He gave up his guns, but held on to his knife. Not the same knife he’d taken lives with back in ‘Nam, but a brand-new piece that looked somewhat similar. It was all the steel he trusted himself to carry these days, and was all he really needed. If Sarge had a blade, his back to a wall, and his eyes on the exits, he was safe.

Other than keeping to himself, Sarge didn’t bother with disguises - he just rolled out of bed and walked out the door without much thought. He’d given up the clean-shaven look, growing out his hair and beard. Even in the July heat, Sarge was dressed in a brown leather jacket with flared blue jeans and combat boots. He was fairly inconspicuous, the only attention-drawing thing being the pile of mugs currently multiplying on his table. 

“Two hundred years!” exclaimed the young waitress. “Can you even believe it?” 

She wasn’t speaking to Sarge - the girl was still across the pub with her coworkers yapping about the Bicentennial. A new patron had just arrived - someone with a deep voice who replied, **“Two hundred years, indeed. My, how time flies. It feels like only yesterday.”**

The stranger’s voice sounded masculine, but was low and distorted, as if speaking through a faulty radio. Sarge glanced up. Bright sunlight shone through the open door, illuminating the stranger so he was only a black silhouette. When the stranger entered, the pub’s lights flickered and then dimmed, as if he had brought shadows in with him. 

“Uh, what...what can I get you?” asked the bartender, who sounded apprehensive and looked a bit scared. Sarge could only see the stranger’s back, but something about his appearance had the barkeep spooked. 

**“Tell me what’s on tap.”**

The bartender served the man his drink, so Sarge turned back to his own beer - to bad memories and sketchy plans for what to do and where to go next. Should he remain in San Francisco, head south to Los Angeles, or return to the East Coast and take the promotion he’d been offered? Sarge was far luckier than others who had returned, with lots of options, though not a lot of motivation. 

Four mugs deep and getting bored, it seemed a good time to leave, but the festive sounds of the Bicentennial outside had grown louder. If he left the pub now, Sarge would run headlong into a frenzied celebration of the country he no longer gave any fucks about. So Sarge settled on keeping his current goals small, like seeing how many beers he could drink before passing out.

 **“Excuse me**. **”**

Sarge looked up, and the pub’s creepy new patron was suddenly there, looming above his table, his face obscured in shadow. 

Surprised, Sarge blurted, “Jesus!" His stomach twisted, and he was both afraid to look and afraid to turn away. He chuckled nervously. “You startled me.”

**“Not Jesus, I’m afraid. Just a friend of the family. May I sit?”**

“Uh…”

The stranger sat without waiting for permission. When he was better illuminated by the overhanging light above the table, the darkness enveloping his form disappeared. Sarge was left looking at a plain man in glasses wearing a blue dress shirt. Light skin, short brown hair, nondescript in every way except the eye wear. Without his shadows, he was almost...ordinary. _Almost_ , because Sarge still felt unsettled by his presence, especially by having the man in such close proximity. 

**“Sergeant--”**

Sarge didn’t let him finish. He thought he’d covered his tracks better than this. 

“Who told you I’m a Sergeant?”

**“Hmm?”**

“That I’m an officer. How’d you find me?” 

Sarge arched an eyebrow at the bartender, but couldn’t catch his eye. The barkeep looked as queasy as Sarge felt, wiping and re-wiping the spot at the bar his new patron had stood. 

The stranger smiled, but in the sort of way a shark does. 

**“I know you, Sergeant. I am familiar with your work.”**

Sarge forced himself to look the stranger in the eye long enough to get a good glare in, but had to glance away, taking a deep swig of his beer. Swallowing, he managed a bitter, “And what the fuck is _that_ supposed to mean?”

 **“Like I said, I know a great deal about you and your...** **_accomplishments._ ** **My associates and I have been keeping a close eye on your progress, and we’ve come to the conclusion that someone with your military expertise would be an excellent asset to our team.”**

“I hate to break it to you, but if you’re a Soviet, I just spent the last ten years killing a fuckton of Commies.”

Sarge’s callous remark only made the stranger’s eerie smile grow wider and more unsettling.

**“What makes you think I’m a Soviet?”**

“Hmm, I dunno,” said Sarge sarcastically. “You disguise your voice, you approach former soldiers you’ve never met with the _ominous_ icebreaker ‘I am familiar with your work.’ You have ‘associates’ who need ‘assets’ for a ‘team.’” Sarge punctuated each word with air quotes. “And you’re a white nerdy-looking guy creeping around San Francisco. It all spells Rusky to me.” 

The stranger stopped smiling, but his eyes told Sarge he still found the accusation amusing.

 **“I’m not a Russian. And if you would prefer that I alter my voice…** I can do that.” 

Mid-sentence, the stranger’s voice rose from its low distortion to a higher pitch that better matched the man’s unassuming appearance.

“Who are you?” Sarge asked. 

“Someone with a lot of powerful friends in very high places, in need of a new right-hand man.”

“Are you from Washington? Because I don’t know what you read in my file, but half those medals belong to people under my command who didn’t make it back. I take no credit for a single goddamn heroic thing those bozos think I did.” Sarge took another swig of his beer, for something to focus on instead of the stranger’s expectant stare. “All I did was kill a lot of people, and let a lot of other folks down.”

“You don’t take much pride in your abilities, do you?”

“No, can’t say that I do.”

“That’s very unusual.”

“I’d prefer to think of it as humble.”

The stranger laughed. “ _Believe_ me, Sergeant, you are _not_ a humble man!”

Angrily, Sarge asked, “And how the fuck would _you_ know?”

“I know you quite well,” said the stranger, looking at him less like a predator, and instead with a sort of fondness. “Or rather, I _will_ know you. In the future.” He mimed flipping something upside down. “Sometimes the two get a little bit _mixed up._ ”

Getting frustrated with whatever game the stranger was playing, Sarge said, “I have no idea what that means, but I _do_ know I want you to leave me the hell alone.” He pointed to the exit. “And since this dive is _my_ usual spot, you’re the one who’s walking out that door.”

The stranger narrowed his eyes at Sarge. Without breaking eye contact, he shouted, “Bartender, two shot glasses and a bottle of your finest rum.”

“Uhh,” the bartender began, voice shaky and uncertain. “We serve by the drink or by the shot, we don’t let customers pour--”

“I’ll take the whole bottle,” the stranger said blithely. “Bring it here, and two glasses.”

The bartender sent the baby-faced waitress over. She also looked uneasy, gingerly placing the items on their table, then swiftly walking away. The stranger didn’t thank her. Instead, he grinned at Sarge, who by this point had his hand in his pocket, fingering the handle of his knife.

The stranger poured two shots of rum, slid one glass to Sarge and said, “Drink with me and I’ll explain.”

Sarge reluctantly picked up the glass. If he hadn’t seen the waitress open the bottle herself or carefully watched the stranger’s hands, there was no way he’d trust this creep to serve him a drink. Even without the distorted voice and with the nerdy glasses, the stranger had an aura of danger around him that called to mind some of the more fucked up people Sarge had met during the war.

“Cheers,” the stranger said.

“Cheers,” Sarge repeated, and they took their shots. He winced, the rum burning his throat. He was pretty sure this wasn’t really the bar’s best. Then again, top-shelf liquor wasn’t in hot demand in pubs like this.

With a slight smile, the stranger licked his lips, either pleased with the flavor, or amused by Sarge’s reaction.

“Time isn’t always linear, Sergeant,” he said. “At least not for people like myself. So pardon me if I spoil any future events.”

“Like me being a pompous asshole?”

The stranger chuckled. “Like you being a _confident_ asshole.” He poured two more shots. “Tell me, how many times did you evade Death in the war? We lost count after a certain point.”

" _That’s_ not creepy,” Sarge muttered sarcastically, not bothering to ask who the stranger meant by “we.”

“You’re a _survivor_ , Sergeant. I need someone like that on my team.”

Sarge scoffed. “I’m done with teams, and with fighting losing battles for pointless causes.” Sarge knocked back his second shot, and the rum went down easier this time.

The stranger took his own shot and said, “I don’t believe that’s true. Fighting is all you know. It’s all you’ve _ever_ known. All your life you’ve struggled, and for what? To give up so easily when you’re just getting started?”

Sarge banged his shot glass on the table, emphatically replying, “They can pin every medal on my chest and I still won’t go back. The highest promotion, the largest salary, none of it matters to me anymore. I’m done fighting.”

“What if I gave you a higher purpose than these trivial wars? Something bigger. A battle you can actually win.”

“In my experience, everyone loses eventually. So I’m going to sit right here and drink my beer, and you’re going to leave me the fuck alone.”

“You’re passing up a golden opportunity, Sergeant. The chance of a lifetime to achieve true greatness.”

The guy sounded like every ego-maniacal officer Sarge had ever met - or more accurately, like some kind of movie villain, with a manic gleam behind those glasses.

“Thanks, but no thanks.” 

“A chance to make all those sacrifices your friends made in the war to actually _count_ for something.”

Now that…

That was unfair.

After a stunned beat, Sarge growled, “The _fuck_ did you just say?” 

“Johnson, was it?” the stranger asked curiously. “He gave up everything, including his life in exchange for your own _pathetic_ existence.” 

“How the hell--?”

Casually, the stranger rattled off names of the dead.

“So did Willert, Cody, and Schmidt.”

“Stop it.”

“Stoll, Jack, and Reimann.”

“I said stop it.”

“What would Katy say seeing you like this, pissing your life away?”

Sarge banged his fists on the table. Standing up, he towered over the stranger, trying to intimidate while his heart pounded in his chest, channeling all his grief into rage. 

_“Stop it!”_

Everyone in the pub froze, turning to look. Sarge stared down the stranger, whose calm expression hadn’t changed, even with Sarge shouting in his face.

The stranger stayed quiet, his hands neatly folded on the table. No one spoke, and eventually Sarge sank back down into the booth, all his energy draining out of him. 

“Who the fuck are you?”

“There’s only one way for you to find out.”

 _Of-fucking-course the guy would pull this shit._ Like so many other creeps who messed with men’s heads, the stranger wouldn’t give up his secrets so easily. 

“Are you the Devil?” Sarge asked. “Because you don’t strike me as the _angelic_ type.”

It was a ludicrous question, Sarge thought, but his parents had been superstitious types, and so were most folks he knew. Even if the stranger had somehow found lists of all the men Sarge had served with, the names he mentioned were friends scattered across ten years. And how did the stranger know his lover Katy or the way that Johnson died? It was as good an explanation as any.

“No,” said the stranger, lip quirked in amusement. “I’m not the Devil. Just somebody who’s been everywhere and seen everything. There’s no _one_ name for people like me. Only a singular goal.”

“And that is?”

“To rule the world, of course.”

Sarge groaned and rolled his eyes, saying, “You’re fucking kidding me.” Pouring another shot of rum for himself, Sarge said, “That’s all anybody ever wants.” He drank, wincing. “Everybody wants to rule the goddamn world.” Sarge spun the shot glass on its side, watching as it slowed. He spun it again. 

“If I took your offer - which believe me, I won’t - why would you want a suicidal nihilist on your crew?”

“Are you?” asked the stranger.

“Suicidal?” 

“A nihilist.”

Sarge spun the glass again. “It’s the only philosophy that makes any damn sense these days.”

“Ah,” said the stranger, looking like he’d finally found a way to convince him. “If it’s a new philosophy you’re seeking--”

“I’m not,” Sarge said flatly.

“My associates and I were the first philosophers, depending on your definition. Humans have been coming up with answers since the dawn of intelligence, but we started the trend of charging people money to hear them.”

“Uh, that’s not really how that works.” 

In Sarge’s experience, anyone could be a philosopher. Especially during long, sleepless, agonizingly boring nights in the jungle. Much like the faithful could murmur prayers without a priest, soldiers whispered their own musings on morals, ethics, and what life was all about. 

“I should know how it works,” said the stranger haughtily, “since I’m the one who invented it.”

“That’s it,” said Sarge. “I’ve had enough of this. Do you have any idea how close I am to beating the shit out of your crazy ass?” Sarge pinched his fingers, indicating a miniscule amount. 

“Join me and I will pay you anything,” said the stranger, that manic gleam back in his eyes. “Things far more valuable than the military ever could. If it’s not money you’re after and you don’t care about winning, surely there’s _something_ you want that I can provide.”

“Anything, huh?”

“Absolutely anything.”

Sarge thought of the names the stranger had mentioned, like they were just items on a shopping list. To the stranger, they had not been living, breathing people who had hopes and dreams, who were skilled, talented and hard-working. Who cared about Sarge, and who he cared about in return. The names were just words meant to dig under his skin, to manipulate his emotions and throw him off balance. _No, they weren’t any of those things. They were just ghosts._

“I want my friends back.”

The stranger’s face fell, coldly serious. 

“Anything but that.”

Sarge huffed a laugh, replying, “Then you might want to change your definition of the word ‘anything.’”

“It’s not in my power,” the stranger explained. “What’s done is done, and dead is dead. Is there anything _else_ your heart desires?”

“Is this one of those deals where I sign away my soul?” Sarge asked. “Because I did that already back in ‘63 to the United States Armed Forces.”

“Then how can you be certain you still have a soul left to sell?”

“You got me there.” 

Sarge licked his lips, about to go down a road he’d not gone in two years. It was a thought he hadn’t entertained since his very last kill. Not the last shot he’d taken in self-defense, but the last encounter in which he struck first. 

“Let’s say I do still have a soul,” he said. “If you’re so old and you’re so wise, tell me, am I going to Hell? Because I’ve done a lot of fucked up shit - the kind of stuff I can’t ever take back - and something tells me I won’t be too welcome at the Pearly Gates.” Sarge sneered. “Can you do anything about _that_ , Magic Man?”

“No,” the stranger replied soberly. “There are some things in this universe that even I can’t change.”

Sarge hadn’t expected that. He thought the stranger would scoff at his request, dismissing it as a joke, denying such a place even existed. The stranger’s implication - that Hell _did_ exist and that Sarge might be going there - sent chills down his spine. 

Freaked out by this revelation, Sarge blurted, “Then I don’t ever want to die.”

“Not even to see your friends again?” 

“They’re gone. Buried in the jungle with all the rest.” He sighed. “I accepted that a long time ago.”

The stranger actually looked puzzled by Sarge’s choice. 

“You would pass up Heaven just to avoid burning in Hell?”

“Can you do it, or not?”

“Yes,” said the stranger with a smile. “That I can do.”

The stranger poured out two more shots of rum, and on the count of three, sealing his fate, Sarge took a drink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **TO BE CONTINUED**
> 
> **Author's Note 11/28/20:**
> 
> So, I posted this chapter in August, and I did work on the rest of the fanfic in the time since. I got stuck, however, and dropped it, even though I have an outline, thousands of words already written, two short chapters completed, and one really long one mostly completed. But the story is linear, and I can't do what I do with my other fanfiction and post it out of order. So until I get it together and actually finish chapters in order - I'm imagining something like 8 total - I can't post more. I hope I figure it out and get unblocked, because I really like my idea!


End file.
